A Wonderful Thing
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: A series of correspondence between Sherlock and Molly set during the time period of the Second World War. Written in epistolary form.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**__ This series was inspired by the appearance of Benedict Cumberbatch and Louise Brealey at the Letters Live Festival this year, where they did a reading of a series of WW2 love letters. The title also comes from that same appearance; it comes from a quote from a letter read out by Ben C. I may or may not add to it in time, but I cannot promise anything. For the time being however, this story is complete._

* * *

Dear Molly,

The journey towards the front has been arduous, at best. The other men have been singing Vera Lynn's "We'll Meet Again" almost non-stop since our company's departure. John has joined in once or twice with them; he claimed it was to boost morale, but I doubt it. I've caught him looking at his picture of Mary once or twice.

I find myself thinking of you. I find myself thinking of the departure we made to one another. I admit that your embrace was rather sudden, but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the sentiment behind it. I've never truly been one for the act, if I'm honest, but right now, as I write this letter in this tent with aircraft going over every day, and bombs being dropped and guns going off, I find myself thinking back to your kiss; to your mouth on mine. I find myself… rather glad for the memory, Molly. I thank you for that memory.

My only regret is how I acted. I'm guessing I looked rather shocked? And perhaps bewildered. I'll admit to that; you're a bewildering person, Molly, after all. However, bewilderment doesn't mean hatred. And I could never hate you—you're one of those people I suppose; entirely impossible to hate or even loathe, just the slightest bit. There are people like that all over the world—I suppose I'll meet a few of them during my time here—but you perhaps are the most important of all of them. Always have been, really. (Why I should only realise that now is ludicrous and makes me curse any and every deity under my breath.)

There are whispers that our company should be allowed leave around Christmas time. Another thing to do with sentiment I assume; perhaps if I pull some strings with my brother, I could make those whispers into a reality. I'll certainly try, even though it means actually writing to him. Dear Lord. That will, most certainly, be a painful experience.

The reason for why I wish to come home—even for a short while—must be obvious, especially to you, and especially now. I wish to atone for my behaviour, Molly. I wish to show you the truth: you are, have been and always will be my friend, my Molly and most importantly, my pathologist. Perhaps you will transform into something else, something more, upon my return — but that's a hope on my part. Awfully sentimental really, but the whole act of letter writing is an act of sentiment in itself, so I suppose I was doomed from the moment I put the pen to paper. Still, I do speak the truth, so I doubt I'll get into too much trouble for being sentimental or heaven forbid, affectionate. John will tease me of course; as will Geoff Greg. (Sorry for the error there—he spotted me writing and forced me to correct myself. I wonder if he'll ever work out I do it to tease him. I very much doubt it.)

But it is true, Molly. When I write these words, they are as true in my mind as they are on the paper. That you are, and always will be, my Molly? It is the truth.

It is. And it shall remain so.

Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sent 21 September 1940._

Dear Sherlock,

I… I don't quite know what to say. Your letter has thrown me, and I'm not quite sure if I'll get over it for a long while yet. I think I must have read your words almost a hundred times already—the ink has already begun to fade. I'll try and savour it a little more, but it is so difficult. Reading your words is like hearing your voice—and you know how much I love your voice. Mary spotted me reading it on the bus into work this morning, and she said nothing. Only smiled, in that way of hers. She understands I think; how hard it is for us, to know that you are there, fighting for us, and yet your only reward is the promise of a brief return home and these letters. I think that's why I'm so hesitant in what I write to you. Letter writing is a luxury, and I can't—don't want to—waste it.

I'm sorry that your journey has been arduous—though I did tell Mary of your frustration with Vera Lynn; she laughed. I'm afraid to say that I did too! Your disdain for popular culture has always amused me, Sherlock. But in a good way—it's, well, it's sort of refreshing. (I have to admit, I'm getting a little tired of Vera Lynn too—they keep playing her on the radio.)

I think of you as well. It's part of why I was so glad to receive your letter. But I still feel I should apologise, if only briefly. My embrace was sudden, you're right; but that's only because the urge to do it was so sudden. I could not simply leave you with just a wave goodbye, now could I? And you did look rather shocked, yes. For a moment, I did fear you hated me, but your eyes were far too expressive. (They always have been.) Did you know that dilation of pupils can mean attraction? It's a small piece of trivia I once learned from a colleague of mine. I could barely see the blue of your eyes when you looked at me on departure day. It's why I felt such an urge to kiss you. You'd given me hope; I couldn't stand back and not return the favour. So to know that you are thankful for that memory… it makes me happy. Gives me a certain kind of relief, really.

If you are to come back for Christmas, confirm it for me quickly. It will be a pain, admittedly, to know I have to wait three more months to see you, but it is a lesser pain than, well, the other option. Though writing to your brother! I've sent some chocolate to you; perhaps that will be a crumb of encouragement for you. I don't know. I hope it will.

Now I must reply to the portion of your letter that I have re-read the most. Is it silly of me to confess just how much your words have moved me? Most likely, but I'll do so anyway. You made me cry, you silly man. This really wasn't fair of you, especially considering how I was on the bus at the time! One young girl even asked me if I was okay! And you know me—I'm usually so good at keeping quiet and unnoticeable. Trust you to make people notice me.

Yet I am rambling, and rambling about nothing. I should stop that. But I don't particularly want to, not really. The longer I write, the more I am talking to you. I like talking to you, Sherlock. I like listening to you. I like everything about you. Even when you insist on being a total and utter arse, I like you. I like how your honesty, where it wounds me, heals too. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but it does. Hopefully, my honesty will heal you too. And if I can't be honest now, when will I have another chance?

I long to be more than a friend to you, Sherlock. I long to be everything you need me to be. Will you let me?

Your pathologist,

Molly Hooper.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sent 28 September 1940._

Dear Molly,

So I've done it—I've written to my brother. His reply was as swift as I expected it would be, but lengthier too. It seems he has 'got wind' of the development of our relationship, Molly and is thoroughly enjoying himself teasing me about it. Such an insufferable man. I know that I've said it many a time before, but he is a rubbish big brother. Yet strings have been pulled, and Mycroft's letter serves as proof that I shall be with you, in London, in Baker Street, in three months' time. It may be a small sliver of hope for you, but as you say, letter writing is a luxury, even though you wouldn't think it, with the speed with which John writes his letters to Mary and the reams of paper he uses; I sneaked a look at one of them. The man writes poetry to her, Molly. _Poetry._ If I ever make one request to you Molly, during this time, it would be to never ask me to write you poetry. I would struggle, and you would laugh and neither of us would be fully satisfied.

Yet I've strayed from the point. What I was trying to say was that letter writing, if you think about it, is both a freeing and a constricting thing. Freeing because it allows me to speak to you; constricting because despite my best efforts, I doubt I could quantify the magnitude of the hope and the strength the knowledge of seeing you has given me. Christ, but that's sentimental. I'm almost embarrassed that I managed to write that—but that's what makes the act of letter writing such a luxury. It allows the both of us to say things we wouldn't usually say. For instance, I'm sure you would never have told me that I managed to make you cry. You're far too proud, far too protective of me, to do so. Just as I am too protective of you to tell you how worried I am about you. For I am worried, Molly. I worry about how long this war will go on for. Every time I step outside of this hovel (they dare to call it shelter), I worry. We all worry. We worry for ourselves, for our friends, for our families. Admittedly, I don't much worry about Mycroft—he can protect himself—but I do worry about you. I worry about you because you matter, Molly. You count. Not many people in my company do, but you do. You always have, really.

I'm glad though, to know of your growing exhaustion for Vera Lynn. It's nice to have a companion in my opinion; that's something I seldom have. Even if I do, they're usually ten steps behind. In technical terms of course, she's more than competent, but once you've listened to several mangled versions of We'll Meet Again and The White Cliffs of Dover by various troops of soldiers, all with tears in their eyes as they wave goodbye to their loved ones, you'll no doubt understand my disinterest.

That isn't, however, to say that I completely hate _all_ types of popular culture. Have I ever told you that I love to dance? It's probably a surprise, considering how sullen I usually am at whatever gathering I've attended in the past, but I always have loved dancing. Sadly, I have never had the chance. Still, I live in hope. Perhaps… perhaps the right case will come along, one day. Of course, dancing is an entirely pointless activity if you don't have the right partner. That's not sentiment, I should clarify—that's logic. Two dancers must have the same rhythm; the same knowledge. They must be able to read one another. Otherwise it will all fall apart. And you've always read me extremely well, Molly. I like that about you. At first, I was… unnerved that you saw me so quickly, and so easily. It made me wonder if others saw me in the way you did; if everything I had tried to do and tried to be had failed spectacularly. In fact, I was predisposed to dislike you because of it. Yet you were too skilful in your work, and too happy in your demeanour for me to ever dislike you.

Sometimes, in the quieter moments here, I think back on my behaviour to you. I realise how abdominal I've been to you at times, and how cutting my remarks have been. Then I think of how quiet and strong and kind you have been, even in the face of all of that, and I find myself unutterably grateful towards you. Annoyed too, because I know I can never really atone for being so cruel.

But you mustn't apologise for rambling. (Arguably, I've indulged in a fair bit of rambling in this very letter.) While it's true that I do zone most people out when they are not succinct or to the point, it is rather unfairly that I find I cannot zone you out. Everything you say—everything you write—holds a certain weight, Molly. Perhaps it's because you are so aware of the limitations in letter writing, or perhaps it's because what you have to say is from the heart. You speak, you write, with instinct. Instinct is something I can, and do, listen to.

So please Molly, continue talking. I will listen.

Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

_From: Molly Hooper, to Sherlock Holmes, sent 5 October 1940._

Dearest Sherlock,

(This letter will have to be short, as I'm writing it while holed up in an Underground station, and there is little to no light in here, so forgive any errors I might make.)

I doubt it would surprise you if I admitted the shock your letter has brought me. Shock, and surprise—though I'm sure those two things are interchangeable—and well, delight. In fact, I think I yelped when I opened up the envelope, scanned your words and saw the news. I've relayed it to practically everyone; I even told the postal officer! As soon as I met Mary on the bus, I told her. She gasped, and as is her way, demanded to read the letter to see if I wasn't lying. I tried to refuse, but you know Mary; she's an intimidating woman when she wishes to be. I did only let her read the first paragraph though. The rest of your words are, after all, private, and only to be shared between us. I pretty much told Mary that. She seems to understand, especially in such a time as this.

Everyone else though—everyone else simply marvelled at the news when I told them! Especially Mrs Hudson. After receiving your letter, I zipped straight over to Baker Street and told her. She almost fainted! She told me she was "just being silly", but I'm pretty sure it was just the overwhelming sense of relief that had her so affected. I know because I was rather wobbly-legged when I first read your letter. She's already organising your welcome home party! I told her it wasn't for another three months, but she's still requested I ask you what flavour sandwiches you'd prefer for the buffet (yes, she's planning a buffet—I'll try to rein her in, but you know how difficult that can be). Sally remained perfectly calm, blessed woman that she is. I know you and her don't always see eye to eye, but I have to say, her calmness and her strength does help me bolster my own, especially when I'm feeling down after listening to the radio.

In fact, I've been listening to the radio pretty much non-stop lately (accounts for my tiring of Vera Lynn I suppose) and although there's been no mention of your company, it still hurts my heart to know of just how many people are suffering and how many fatalities have come because of this war—on both sides.

It also hurts to hear people speak of Germany in such violent, awful ways. I fear Adolf Hitler and the Nazis as much as anybody, but if one takes away the nationalities—German, British, Italian, Japanese—then all you are left with is death, not just of soldiers, but of civilians too. Everyone in the world is losing someone special to them; someone they love and have promised to cherish.

Oh dear. That's not very cheerful is it? No, not at all. And I promised myself I would be! You're already in the trenches—you don't want me waxing lyrical about death and identity and nationality, now do you? To tell the truth, I think I blame the radio. They keep speaking of the Blitz, and which cities are the next targets of the bombs. I honestly can't believe it sometimes. These air raids have been going on for months now, and still they continue. Will Hitler never be satisfied? I can't help but wonder what exactly he hopes to achieve. The world? Is _that_ what he wants? Well, if he wants the world, then he can have it, and clean up the mess he's made.

Molly.


	5. Chapter 5

_From: Molly Hooper, to Sherlock Holmes, sent 6 October 1940._

Dear Sherlock,

Please forgive me...

I was being a fool

Yesterday, I wasn't in my right mind.

I fear I was writing my previous letter at entirely the wrong moment. Remind me never to write a letter while in an Underground Station! Something about the cold does something to me. I hope my melancholy mood did not upset you. After all, as you said, you worry about me. Well, I hope this will ease your worries a little: the latest air raid hasn't caused that much damage. They only managed a few houses this time around, and luckily, none of the houses were neither near mine nor Mary's, so we're safe. Sally's okay too; there was an air raid near her house, but there was only minor damage. The one big target is St. Paul's Cathedral—something to do with symbols of hope, if the radio is anything to go by. (Ironic, because I don't even attend church.)

They've stopped playing Vera Lynn, at last. Well, I say they've stopped playing her… they just don't play her as much as they used to. They tend to play instrumentals now, slow trumpet solos. It's probably meant to evoke some sort of wistfulness in us; make us dream of a time when we weren't at war and didn't have to scrimp and save for everything and have our food dictated to us via a rationing book. That's probably why Mrs Hudson is so busy preparing for your arrival. If she's going to put on a celebration, she needs to know what to save and what to eat. The news of your visit has quickly spread though—and now everyone is more than willing to help Mrs Hudson with her plans.

Oh, but I still feel utterly horrible for sending you that letter! I must have terrified the wits out of you, Sherlock! Do you accept my apology? I am so sorry. You write such beautiful words in your letters, and I reply with whining. I was an utter beast to send that to you, especially when you're so busy worrying and trying to protect not just me, but the whole country.

Please, forget my previous letter and know that I am safe and well and looking forward to your return.

Always yours,

Molly.


End file.
